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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896534">marked</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliananders/pseuds/trilliananders'>trilliananders</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bittersweet Ending, F/M, soulmate!AU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 16:48:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,749</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896534</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliananders/pseuds/trilliananders</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>soulmate!au; just because you’re meant to be together doesn’t mean it always works out that way. what happens when you’re not completely ready to meet your soulmate?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>marked</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You’ve had their tattoo your entire life. That’s what you called it too. Their tattoo. It didn’t feel like yours. The tiny brand of their fated love. Whoever they were, they were already a fully formed adult by the time you were born. The nurse who wiped the blood and mucus off of your little body gasping seeing the soft little bloom on your chubby arm. </p><p>You parents had been a little alarmed. The tattoos forming once the partner was eighteen years old, the age gap startling. But the fates were to be trusted. So life went on. </p><p>At first when you were a little girl, you’d loved the little string of flowers on your forearm. You’d colored it in with markers and outlined it every day, but you didn’t understand what it was then. They were called bleeding hearts. The strand of them across your entire forearm. </p><p>“I thought you weren’t supposed to get it until you were an adult.” Her name was Amy. You didn’t get along with Amy. “Does that mean that you’re going to be with an old person?” A cackle from her group of friends. You sunk lower into your desk, covering your arm with your hand and pulling it in tight to your body. </p><p>It became something they’d tease you about for years. </p><p>The bleeding hearts that your Mother had planted, you came to resent them. The ones painted onto your childhood bedroom’s walls you’d begged them to be covered up. You started using makeup to cover up the black outline of the offending flowers, trying to gain some kind of normalcy. </p><p>It’s funny how a couple of cruel kids can totally change your outlook on something that should be so simple, so easy. </p><p>But it made you think, what if he was an old man? By the time you were eighteen he would be almost forty. That is, if he was exactly eighteen when you were born. There were possibilities outside of the norm, like usually people would be wondering what their partner was doing right now. What did they want to do with their lives? This person, whoever they were, man or woman, must have been alarmed that their flower never showed up. Their right arm staunchly blank until you yourself turned eighteen. </p><p>You wondered that night, as your family celebrated your birthday, as you blew out your candles, if they were just as panicked as you were. </p><p>x</p><p>The doctors stalled. Their movements halted, and the asset didn’t know why. What were they doing? New procedure? They murmured to each other. Passing by closely, a nurse resumed strapping him down, his bones still chilled from cryostasis. “Soulmate.” He heard. </p><p>It scratched at him from the back of his mind, the word. He’d heard it before. He knew what it meant of course, soulmates. He’d separated one from another many times. Instructed to dispatch one and let the other live, it didn’t matter which one. </p><p>He did his job, quickly and efficiently. He had to. </p><p>A mouth guard placed between his teeth and his heart began to race in a Pavlovian response. Fingers clenching and unclenching with anticipation. His legs and arms being restrained before the metal plates would close over his face and the pain would begin. </p><p>“I have a new mission for you,” Alexander Pierce. The man who was in charge. His boss. His master. “It’s ongoing. Concurrent with any other missions I ask of you, do you understand?” He felt himself nod, mind still scrambled, dazed. “You see this?” His wrist was harshly turned over, the black lines swirling around it he’d never seen before. “If you ever see this on someone else, this exact tattoo, you bring them here. Do you understand?” The asset’s eyes glazed over, unfocused. Pierce smacked him upside his head, gripping his face tightly and pulling his gaze into his. “Do you understand soldier?” </p><p>“Yes, I understand.” </p><p>x</p><p>The sun rose and set with no event. You hadn’t found him. Years passed and your life went on. The apprehension and the fear of finding him out there somewhere would never leave. Your friends found their soulmates, they got married, some even had kids now. And you were still alone. </p><p>“You don’t want to meet him?” Your best friend, Nia asked. She wrapped a perfectly curled strand of hair around her finger, tightly pinning it with a clip and spraying it with hair spray. Her tattoo was of a set of constellations, it was on her collarbone. Her husband’s matching one was found in your first year of college. The two found each other in a chem lab and babbled to one another over renewable energy and found they both wanted to work for the same ecological lab that was currently designing a plastic made from trees, something they worked together to produce. </p><p>You watched her in the mirror curl your hair for another college friend’s wedding, the bride and groom having met each other in a perfect meet-cute, their dogs both racing towards each other in the middle of central park. Screaming and tripping and tumbling into one another and realizing they had the very same perfect little heart on their ring fingers. </p><p>“It’s not that I don’t want to meet him,” You explain, watching Nia’s perfectly manicured fingers twirl another perfect curl away from the iron, “I’m just apprehensive.” And that was the truth. </p><p>You wanted what all your friends had, really. It’s just what happened was you didn’t see an issue in having an older soulmate until your classmates pointed out it was weird to have an older soulmate and now that it was pointed out to you that it was weird to have an older soulmate now you think it’s weird to have an older soulmate. </p><p>But that’s hard to say to people. </p><p>“Everyone is nervous to meet their soulmate,” Nia soothed, “But that person is the other side of your coin, they’re someone who the fates have created specifically for you.” And that’s what is so scary. Someone is out there waiting for you and it gives you a shit ton of anxiety.</p><p>x</p><p>“Are you sure you’re ready for this Buck?” Steve stood in the doorway behind him, geared up, watching Bucky tighten the laces on his boots. </p><p>“Gotta get back into it sometime don’t I?” Bucky looked up at his long-time friend. Steve’s jaw was clenched, clearly on the fence about letting him back in the field. </p><p>“If you feel it at all going south, just let me know. We can get you out of there, and fast.” Bucky stood, clipping his holster on his back he said, </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll be fine, let’s just go.” </p><p>x</p><p>The wedding was beautiful. In Central Park where they’d met. The early summer sun was warm, but not overbearingly so. It was a perfect day for a wedding and you were already a little drunk. They did this thing with champagne and chambord that was really quenching your thirst and for whatever reason your glass seemed to never be empty. It was easy to lose yourself in the happiness of the day, dancing, drinking, and eating your weight in hors d'oeuvres. </p><p>“Here, c’mon, let’s get a picture.” There was a large floral background weaved with beautiful blooms and greens. The group that were your best friends in college, the ones you smoked way too much weed with and drank yourself blind on twisted teas with, and the groom, whose bathtub you’d woken up in more than once, a group picture at his wedding that you were sure would start endless conversations about late night Taco Bell runs and do you remember this embarrassing thing you did this one time? </p><p>But you couldn’t quite remember what happened after that. It all happened so fast. Spillover from some Avengers fight nearby. There was an explosion, smoke, then triage. </p><p>You couldn’t breathe. The coughing was hard on your throat, gasping for breath. A clear plastic mask was fitted over your face, pure oxygen began pumping into the mask, you could feel yourself shuffled around, doors to an ambulance closing. Your blood was thin from the alcohol. You heard something about a transfusion and then it was dark. </p><p>x</p><p>Bucky’s heart was racing as he came out through the fog. It was just like when they would pull him out of cryo. Muddled and cold. </p><p>“Buck.” Steve’s voice called. “Can you hear me?” He couldn’t move his arms. He couldn’t move his legs. “Bucky?” It was a tiled ceiling. White. It hurt his eyes at first glance. He was at the compound. </p><p>He didn’t know how it went south so fast. The mission was going to be intense, he knew, but he didn’t realize the series of tunnels that twisted through the city would lead them to central park. Right into a trap. The explosion he remembers, resurfacing he remembers, what he doesn’t remember was what happened when he was trying to grab civilians out of the way. It all became a blur then. </p><p>“What happened back there?” Steve’s brow pulled in concern, he was changed, freshly washed and sitting in the chair next to the bed in the med room. </p><p>“I don’t know.” Arms flexing against the restraints, “Let me outta here.” A buzz and a chink sound and the metal restraints unlocked and retreated back into the frame of the bed. Bucky sat up and swung his legs over the side, eyes locking onto the bleeding hearts on his arm and halting, before hastily tugging his sleeve down to cover it. </p><p>“I think you need to talk to Shuri.” Steve stepped back and let Bucky stand, “There’s still something going on in there.”</p><p>“Maybe you’re right.”</p><p>x</p><p>Have you ever had a trach? A large plastic tube down your throat, it helps you breathe but it’s uncomfortable, and startling when you wake up and you could feel it hard against your tongue and throat. Tears pooled in the corners of your eyes from the harsh lights. A steady beep in the background as you reached consciousness and realized your surroundings. </p><p>“Hey sweetheart.” Your Mom, brushing hair out of your face and soothing your rising heart rate, “You’re okay, you’re okay. Let me get the nurse.” </p><p>Everyone for the most part was fine, the blast came from the ground, feet away from the reception. There were guests in critical condition in the ICU but no one had died. Bride and Groom were in the same condition as you were, bruised and with a broken bone or two but mostly fine. </p><p>A cast sat, freshly dried on your right arm, from wrist to elbow. Your soul mark covered by plaster. Your throat hurt after the trach was removed and you were left to recover in your childhood bedroom. </p><p>“It’s unbelievable.” Your Dad sat in his recliner, feet up, drinking what must have been his third cup of coffee that day. “Ross is a joke.” The news had been all about the Avengers and what happened in central park. Wedding guests who hadn’t been injured were interviewed, joggers, a family visiting from some other state with two small children. There was a replay of events, in between the rubble and smoke were the Avengers fighting a group with steel masks on, one with white scratching in the shape of a skull and ‘x’ scraped on the chest plate. They called him Crossbones. He was their leader. Supposedly. </p><p>“If he were to just let the Avengers do their job, these criminals wouldn’t be getting so close to the city.” A gruff response to the newscaster talking about what Secretary Ross had issued in a statement earlier. </p><p>“We are doing everything we can to find the perpetrators responsible for the Central Park bombing,” A simple, practiced response, “We will be working tirelessly until they are caught and brought to justice.” Your father scoffed and rolled his eyes. </p><p>“They’ll sit on their thumbs until the incident is forgotten and then maybe by then whatever group this is will have another bombing ready to go.” A knock on the door. Your Mother leaving the other side of the couch where she was listening, but not really while scrolling through her facebook page on her phone. </p><p>“Hello, how can I help you?” The pleasant chirp of her voice. You couldn’t hear what was on the other end but moments later she reappeared in the living room, two men in suits in tow. “Y/N, honey, these men work with the government, they just have a couple questions for you about the incident.” </p><p>The two men looked straight out of men in black, almost comically so. They said that they worked with the Avengers and it made your parents skeptical of them. Why would the Avengers send someone out to talk to you in the first place? You already had given your report to the police in the hospital. It didn’t make any sense. </p><p>But you answered their questions and about an hour later they were on their way out the door and you hoped they wouldn’t be back. Something just seemed off about them. </p><p>Life went on, as it does. </p><p>You were back at work, girls nights on Thursdays having margarita pitchers and tacos at Nia’s penthouse apartment, her and her husband had the good fortune of working for a leading ecological engineering company where they both worked side by side in a lab attempting to mass produce reusable and biodegradable alternatives to the current norm. Chinese takeout containers in your fridge and the same bag of salad you throw out and replace each week. Normal. </p><p>Except for one thing that made you feel a little crazy. You felt like you were being watched. </p><p>x</p><p>Something was wrong, Bucky knew that, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. It was itching at the back of his mind. Something he had forgotten. Something he couldn’t piece together. It was killing him. </p><p>He remembered everything from before. Every hit, every instruction, every time he was put in that chair and his brain was scrambled. Everything except one thing in particular. </p><p>Those bleeding hearts on his arm. </p><p>He knew that he didn’t have them during the war. It was a point of contention for him, never getting his soul mark, he was endlessly sensitive about it. Insecure. He wondered if maybe the fates hadn’t chosen one for him. Maybe he was a mistake, a flaw in the soulmate system. He didn’t have one. Which is why in that little apartment in Bucharest that he found himself staring at the thin and dark black lines on his right arm. </p><p>Was this always meant to happen? He wrought his brain in those early days, when did this happen. When did his soulmate become an adult? How long ago was it? How old are they now? </p><p>The apartment smelled like shit. Plumbing was out somewhere, the neighbors next door constantly screamed at each other, but it kept him hidden. It gave him time to think before he would let Steve find him. </p><p>But those flowers. </p><p>He couldn’t remember. It was gone. </p><p>“It would have interfered with their plans,” Shuri explained, “If you had a soulmate that person might have been overwhelming enough to you to deter your mission.” The lab had been updated since he’d last been here. New gadgets and equipment scattered about in an organized but cluttered way. </p><p>Shuri was always working on something new and she frequently called him down to work on his arm. Something to give it more feeling, now he couldn’t just feel pressure and temperature, he had actual nerve endings. “They’ll immediately close at the hub if something were to happen, though I don’t imagine you being able to destroy this arm easily.” The dark vibranium and gold.</p><p>Bucky nods in agreement, “That makes sense.” She gives him an odd look. </p><p>“We could go deeper,” She continues, “They’ve probably buried it deep into your psyche.” It wasn’t a painful process, but it was uncomfortable. Bucky trusted Shuri and he wanted to know. He had to know. </p><p>This person, whoever they were, was made for him. He knew that he wasn’t ready for them, for that relationship, but he could at least figure out when the flowers bloomed on his arm and put a timeline together. That’s what he needed. </p><p>It was like falling asleep in the bath. </p><p>Warm and comfortable, a little foggy. Sleep sets on and you find yourself sinking, slipping further into the heat. Then the inhale of water, burning against your lungs and you’re leaning over the side, fully awake and coughing liquid. </p><p>Then again, </p><p>And again.</p><p>Until it’s clear. </p><p>He needed to stay far away from you, whoever you were. </p><p>x</p><p>If there was one thing you loved about taking the NYC subway it was people-watching. Not able to happen when it was rush hour and you’d be shoved between an overweight man with a staring problem and an older woman who refused to sit because it was sexist, but on your way home after a late shift. When you had your seat and there were only ten other people in the car with you. </p><p>This observance showed you an old man headed home with a cloth tote of groceries. You assumed he was a professor because who else wears tweed on top of a vest and tie. The leather attache case also seemed very professor-like. </p><p>There was a group of kids, probably fresh out of high school, laughing loudly and joking around at the front of the car. One of them recording the other three on their phone, a short clipped tune playing on the phone. Probably something for TikTok. </p><p>There was a couple and both had a bike with them. The girl was in loose cotton overalls and had lavender hair. The guy’s hair was long, reaching just below his shoulders, heavily tattooed, and thin. He had tapered cuffed jeans and a floral button down on. They would kiss every couple minutes in between talking softly. </p><p>The weirdest group were the three men at the end of the subway car. They gave you a weird vibe, but being around seven other people made you feel a little more safe. </p><p>They weren’t talking to each other, looking at their phones, but something made you feel like they were watching you when you weren’t looking. You just hoped they weren’t getting off at your stop. </p><p>“This paranoia,” your therapist explained, “Is most likely rooted in the incident. You were comfortable and your guard was down.” And then the attack. “It’s perfectly normal to be experiencing some PTSD after being through a traumatic event.” </p><p>But it felt so superficial. Other people have had worse situations. No one was hurt that badly. Yes, your cast itches like hell, but you didn’t have to live through the blip. You were one of the ones who blipped, so it was like it never even happened. </p><p>You had two parents who really loved you and supported your decisions. They didn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to and they always were there if you needed help. </p><p>You had a good group of friends who were reliable and got together once a week like adults do. You had a nice studio apartment not too far away from the good part of town and a job that you excelled at. </p><p>There were people who had a bad day, every day. And you had a truly bad day once and now you were this paranoid mess that always felt like the other shoe was about to drop. </p><p>“Your worst day is your worst day,” is what she said, “Don’t compare yourself to others, their trauma does not discount your trauma.” </p><p>But it still didn’t feel right. </p><p>You were regretting bringing your tumbler out to work. Always at the end of the night, full of water or tea, and not wanting to carry it anymore you dumped it out on the street. Another block and you’ll be home. Only one of the men got off at your stop. Tumbler stored in your backpack you white knuckle your keys in your fist. He was headed in the same direction. </p><p>It became kind of like tunnel vision. The only thing you could hear is his footsteps. Hard, clacking against the pavement and also the side of your skull. Your heart was racing and you could feel a cold sweat break out on your forehead and the nape of your neck. Your hands are shaking. </p><p>The steps to your building have never felt more comforting, but the final slam of the passcode protected door was definitely a little more comforting. The shadow of the man continued to walk by. No glance in your direction. </p><p>And you felt foolish. </p><p>You were just paranoid, you were sure of it. </p><p>“So I was thinking,” Nia took a sip of her margarita, the table full with nachos, guac and chips, and various small street-style tacos. It was a local spot not too far from your apartment, a basement restaurant that was the friend group favorite since freshman year of college when you’d sneak in with fake IDs. “Maybe we upload your soulmark to one of those search sites.” </p><p>You roll your eyes, licking the salt of the rim of the glass before taking a long pull of your drink. “I don’t think that’s for me,” You shrug, leaning back in your chair, “I just want to let it happen, it’ll happen eventually.” It’s not that you had anything against those sites. They really helped people and it’s completely possible that it’s how the fates planned for them to meet, but seeing as you were fine as you were at the moment, you didn’t really want anything to help you speed up the process. </p><p>Nia sighs, but relents, “So are you going to come to Gin’s gallery opening?” </p><p>x</p><p>“What do you have on Rumlow?” Bucky just freshly back from Wakanda greeted Steve. </p><p>“How was it?” Bucky shook his head, changing the subject,</p><p>“Do we have anything on him? His location? Anything?” Steve looked at his friend, understanding, but not wanting to drop the subject. </p><p>“We’ve got a couple leads to flush out, but honestly Buck, are you okay?” There was a dark look in his eyes, the look he had often had when he was fresh from the ice and going through Shuri’s process for the first time. The memories he’d face everyday. </p><p>“I’ll be fine.” And that was that. Not further questions. He didn’t want to be asked and Steve knew he would come around eventually. </p><p>He told himself he was fine, because he was, mostly. This fence he straddled of wanting his soulmate and the before final resignation that he didn’t have one, he was finally on a third side. He couldn’t find them. </p><p>Not if he didn’t want to hurt them. </p><p>The fog cleared. </p><p>He remembered bursting from the ground, flung recklessly by the bomb, landing on his feet. Crouched. Knees shocked in protest, from catching his body weight. He remembers instinctively, standing, making one pass and realizing there was a large group of people in the smoke. He got to work, pulling people out, getting them out of the way before going back in. </p><p>Then there it was. As clear as day, he could see it. The bleeding hearts. And then he didn’t have control over his body anymore. </p><p>He snapped your arm. </p><p>He was ripped away by someone on Rumlow’s team. But he snapped your arm. His eyes focused on your unconscious body as he felt himself fighting others. He didn’t mean to break your arm. </p><p>He didn’t mean to. </p><p>But he did. And it sat in his gut. Toxic and acidic, rolling and cresting up his throat until he was spitting up bile. Laying over his toilet, gagging and unable to vomit. </p><p>He had to stay away. There was no other option. </p><p>“They wanted you to bring her back to them?” Shuri asked.</p><p>“But they don’t exist anymore.” Bucky offered. Shuri nods, scrolling through the datapad. </p><p>“I can take the mission objective from you,” She explains, “But you’re going to have to deal with these negative feelings with your therapist.” The fear. The anxiety. The longing. </p><p>“It’s a string.” He remembers his grade school teacher explaining. “A string that’s loose at first, but the tension pulls you closer and closer together until you meet.” A string that bonds, wraps itself around you and fuses you together. </p><p>Shuri continues, “You’ll see her again.” It’s a certainty. “Hopefully by then we will have this taken care of.” The trains moving the vibranium, Bucky watched them, disassociating. It was so relaxing seeing them pass on a schedule, quickly and efficiently. Always on time. “You deserve to be happy, James.” That brought his eyes to hers, still unfocused and wanting to leave. “You deserve to be with her.” But he wasn’t so sure. </p><p>“Let’s go.” Steve’s voice was soothing, familiar when he feels like he’s drowning. It always brings him out. It pulls him back to the surface. </p><p>He’s in the jet. The jet just landed. Another base. Another search for information. Far away from New York. Far away from you. </p><p>“All these bases look the same.” Sam sounds annoyed, the concrete structure buried halfway into the ground. Old Hydra bases that Rumlow knew. The ones that Bucky also knew. The ones that Rumlow knows that Bucky knows. Breadcrumbs found in the forest leading them into the evil old woman’s oven. </p><p>It was abandoned and recently so if the empty rotting food containers and spoiled milk in the fridge was anything to go by. Robbed of the guns and ammo, the last few bombs left over from the old regime kept under lock and key behind steel doors. </p><p>“Where do you think they’re going next?” It was no secret that Rumlow hates Steve, Bucky, and Sam. Sam is the reason his face is burnt to shit. Bucky was the golden boy of Hydra and Steve… Steve was one of the big three. Steve’s face was plastered on billboards and they sold action figures of his likeness. Rumlow was the jealous type. Always. </p><p>If Rumlow had been chosen to be a Winter Soldier he would have taken it with pride. He wouldn’t have suffered or had to have been scrambled like Bucky. And as far as Bucky was concerned Rumlow could have taken it. But it wasn’t that easy. And Rumlow had been 60 years too late. </p><p>“Onto the next one?”</p><p>x</p><p>You could swear that was the same guy from the other night. Maybe. Possibly. Were you crazy? Your leg shaking with anxiety, bouncing to try to release any kind of energy building. The paranoia. The fear. He rode this train the other night. The guy who gets off on your same stop. But maybe that’s just his stop. Maybe he lives on your block. Maybe you really are crazy. </p><p>You were trying to look preoccupied with your phone, but from the corner of your eye you could see him. Black t-shirt and jeans. Hands held placid in his lap, staring out the window. Not much to look at when you’re underground, but if you looked up you can see your own reflection in that window. </p><p>Trust your gut. </p><p>That’s what all of those true crime shows and podcasts have told you. Trust your gut. And something was wrong with this guy. </p><p>Your cast itched like hell. </p><p>In your phone you created a note. What color were his eyes? How tall was he? What was his build? Any distinguishing features? Scars? Tattoos? Did he have a visible soulmark? </p><p>Your stop came. And as expected he also got off. </p><p>The pounding of your heart matched the dual footsteps. A thump in your ears as you listened to the blood rush through them. Above ground you quickly dialed someone you hoped would answer. </p><p>It rang once, twice, three times. </p><p>Four and five. </p><p>He seemed close. Like he knew you were onto him. Like he knew that you knew his intentions were sinister. </p><p>Six and Seven. </p><p>Keys fisted in your opposite hand you prayed under your breath that Nia would wake up. Fucking Christ Nia answer. </p><p>Eight and Nine. </p><p>A chill down your spine, a harsh grip against your cast, arm yanked out of socket. The man pulled relentlessly, other hand coming to grip your neck. Your fisted keys meeting his cheek and eye socket. A scream. Phone dropped. A sore, broken and still healing arm, bruised and blue, now in the open air. A fist meeting your face and your back hitting the brick wall of the building behind you. </p><p>Directed to voicemail. </p><p>x</p><p>“Is it bad?” Natasha sniffed the cup in front of him before taking a sip, “Tastes fine to me.” The coffee he didn’t realize he’d been glaring at. Too caught up in thinking about the flowers on his arm. The ones revealed by his rolled up sleeve. </p><p>“The coffee’s fine.” Bucky sighs, yanking down his sleeve, looking up at Natasha’s prying eyes. A beat of silence.  “It’s fine.” </p><p>“No it’s not.” She protests, grabbing his arm and yanking the sleeve back up, “What’s going on?” Bucky shakes his head, picking up his mug and creating a distance, tugging the sleeve back down over the offending ink. “You haven’t been yourself since Central Park.”</p><p>“I haven’t been myself since I enlisted in the military.” Not untrue. </p><p> </p><p>“You know what I mean,” Nat leaned against the counter, peering at him, a calculating look in her eyes. “Did you see them?” The way his back tensed she knew she was right, brow pulling together tight. “Bucky-”</p><p>“Drop it.” He could hear disappointment in her voice,</p><p>“You not talking to them isn’t going to make it hurt any less.” He knows. He knows. But it would hurt you less. So that’s what he’s going to do. </p><p>“You have to learn to trust yourself,” His therapist said, “You have to trust that you’re a good person and that you weren’t in control, you wouldn’t have done these things normally, would you?” Well no, but he still did those things. The guilt will never go away. He just has to learn how to come to terms with it. </p><p>It’s a process. </p><p>But he needed to keep you from him. </p><p>It’s not that he believed he would break your arm again or worse, but maybe. It’s a possibility and it gave him enough anxiety that he isn’t sleeping well anymore. Those blissful eight hours dwindled to six hours full of tossing and turning. Being too hot and then too cold. Nothing was helping, jogs, hot baths, cold showers, time spent with a punching bag, reading, meditation. He wondered why Pierce never removed the skin on his arm. </p><p>If he didn’t want him to have anything to do with his soulmate that is. </p><p>“They could have used them to control you.” Shuri had speculated, “Make you more compliant.” Makes sense. </p><p>But he could have just brought you back and then what? They use you to torture him. Give you to him as a reward? Let you play house for doing a good job? </p><p>He shudders with the thought. </p><p>His room was a nice reprieve from the questioning. From Nat, Steve, and even Sam had started to ask about his more than chilled demeanor recently. But he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to focus on. He didn’t know what he wanted. </p><p>But it seemed like someone was going to choose for him. </p><p>x</p><p>You hated hospitals. The smell, the noise, the way the sheets felt against your skin. The only good thing about it was the socks, for whatever reason they are the thinnest yet warmest socks ever created. Wild. </p><p>“We think you should move home,” Your Mother was pacing, “We never liked you moving into the city in the first place.” You knew this. </p><p>When you were freshly graduated from high school and told your parents that you wanted to move to New York it was definitely a hard subject for a while, but you’d been living in the city for a while now and truth be told this was only the third time something bad has happened to you since moving here from North Jersey. </p><p>The first one was years ago when you were still in college and to be fair, it was a bad part of town, it was very late at night, and you and your friends were as naive as you were young. The guy didn’t make off with too much money anyway since all of you were broke, but regardless, still a shitty situation.</p><p>The last two were just this past week, the wedding, and now the guy who took your wallet and ripped the cast with unbelievable force from your arm. It hurt. It hurt a lot. Your arm had been pulled out of socket as well, so now you were in a fresh cast and a sling. </p><p>“The city is getting worse,” Your Father agrees, “I don’t know if I can honestly take another call telling me you’re in the hospital.” You could agree with them. </p><p>When you were younger and the Avengers first became a thing it was a steady increase in crime. Then Daredevil and Spider-Man didn’t help. Every criminal in New York wanted to test their chops against the big guys. King Pin became a thing and a bunch of superpowered criminals became rampant, kept only in check by the constant monitoring of heroes on the streets. </p><p>But it wasn’t always like that, 99% of the time it was just another normal day. The problem is your parents loved watching the news, and everything on the news was bad. They didn’t see the good things about the city, they didn’t see the good people in the city. Like the older man in your building who you could call at any time with a plumbing issue and he’d be right over to fix it, the housing office will get back to you anywhere between 7-30 days. There’s another woman with a large family who, even when they’re not there, cooks enough to feed an army and is more than happy to deliver leftovers to your door. </p><p>You’ve never felt more like yourself before moving to the city, there was no doubt in your mind that you wouldn’t be moving out of New York any time soon. </p><p>“It’s just bad luck,” You sigh, closing your eyes against the harsh fluorescent light, “I’ll be fine really, I told you that you didn’t even have to come up here.” </p><p>A knock at the door, your nurse. She walked in and placed the little paper cup with two pills on the tray next to the bed. </p><p>“These are for pain, you have some other visitors,” Other visitors?  “Are you okay to be questioned?” You’d already given your statement to the police. </p><p>“Questioned by who?” The nurse looks over to your parents apologetically.</p><p>“It would probably be best if they questioned her alone.” Begrudgingly your parents left the room, two Avengers taking their place. </p><p>x</p><p>“So one of Rumlow’s goonies attacked this girl?” Sam looked down at the file in his hands. The car scenery changes from the woods and forest of upstate into the skyscrapers and metal of the city. Bucky’s stomach was churning, but he faced the window and didn’t speak. </p><p>“She was also one of the vics at Central Park.” Steve directed the car down the exit ramp, into the heart of the city. Bucky felt like he was going to vomit. </p><p>It’s her. </p><p>“So dude gets a good look at her, thinks she’s pretty, follows her for days afterward?” Sam speculates. Bucky’s neck feels hot. </p><p>This whole car feels hot. He cracks his window. </p><p>“I’m gonna wait here.” Steve and Sam look at him in the rearview, Sam even turning in his seat as Steve navigated a spot in the parking garage. “What?”</p><p>“Everytime there’s something Hydra we can’t pull your nose out of it,” Sam began, “But all the sudden, ‘I’ll wait in the car?’” </p><p>“Are you good, Buck?” Steve’s voice with more concern, killing the engine. </p><p>“No.” He grumbles, “I’m not.” He couldn’t go in there. He just couldn’t.</p><p>x</p><p>“If it’s okay,” Steve began, “We would just like to ask you a few questions about the man who attacked you.” It must have been a big deal, the guy who followed you. Why would two Avengers be in your hospital room if it wasn’t. </p><p>“Of course.” The chill of the hospital room was slowly warming, a nervousness was growing. Who was this guy? And why did he attack you? </p><p>“When did you first notice he was following you?” The Falcon, he stood further back, almost against the wall. His arms crossed and legs in a wide stance. Captain America was in a much more comforting position, sitting in the chair next to your bed, leaned forward, hands clasped and elbows on his knees. </p><p>“Uhm, well… I was in the hospital for a day or two after the attack.” You shift in bed, suddenly wildly uncomfortable, “I was on the subway, headed home, and he was with two other men.”</p><p> </p><p>“Did they also follow you off the train?” You shake your head, </p><p>“No the first night I saw them, they seemed to know each other, but they stayed on their phones most of the time. The man who attacked me was the only one who left at my stop.” The two men had been on the subway sporadically, not always with him. But more often than not. </p><p>Whoever they were, they must have thought you were dumb enough not to notice. But you were also dumb enough to think your paranoia wasn’t real. Maybe you should be going to therapy once a week instead of twice a month. Maybe then you would have learned the difference between markers of past trauma and an actual gut feeling of danger. </p><p>“What did he look like?” </p><p>x</p><p>Bucky’s leg anxiously bounced in the backseat. His fingernails were no longer interesting and his phone, no matter how often he checked his apps, gave him no solace. </p><p>“Maybe just a peek.” He reasoned, leg halting its movements and he looked out the window of the car to the door, entry to the hospital. You were so close, his heart was pounding. He steps from the car, but pauses at the glass sliding doors long enough for them to automatically close again before finally venturing inside. </p><p>Bucky hated hospitals. The smell reminded him of the lab. How sterile it was. How cold. It made him wildly uncomfortable. </p><p>His heart clenched painfully in his chest. The arm. The one he knew that your tattoo resided because that’s where his was, covered in a cast and a sling. There was bruising down the same side, starting under your right eye and trailing down and disappearing into your hospital gown, before reappearing on the small sliver of skin between your sleeve and the top of the sling. </p><p>This was his fault and he knew it. </p><p>But he’ll handle it. </p><p>He’ll make sure that Rumlow and his thugs were safely behind bars on the Raft. Either that, or buried in a shallow grave somewhere in Siberia. </p><p>“She might have seen something.” Steve slammed the car door and Bucky pretended to be preoccupied with his phone. </p><p>“We’ll have to tail her for a while,” The engine starting, Sam continues, “He’ll come back.” Bucky’s jaw clenched.</p><p>He wouldn’t give him the chance. </p><p>x</p><p>The paranoia. The fear. It was palpable. You constantly looked over your shoulder. You’d bought another deadbolt for your door. Checking the windows twice before bed. You bought blackout curtains. As soon as the sun set. Windows checked, curtains pulled. Deadbolts are always locked. </p><p>You didn’t leave unless you had to. The two Avengers didn’t comfort you, why was this guy after you? </p><p>“We’ll do everything we can to find him,” The Captain, just like the words of Ross, aimed to soothe but it really showed you that they had no idea either. </p><p>“Maybe you should take a break,” That’s what your therapist said, “Go stay with your parents for a little bit.” But you couldn’t. Because it felt like he was winning. And you were far too stubborn for that. </p><p>You started carrying a knife.</p><p>It bounced against your hip as you walked, to and from work. The heavy metal you’d run your fingers across if you felt too anxious to continue. The routine helped. It helped the stress, the depression, the anxiety. You found yourself missing the comfort of the tattoo. </p><p>It gave that to you. </p><p>You never noticed it before now. When by force you can’t actually see it, now you wanted to see it more than anything, but your arm was encased in an inch of plaster and was still terribly sore. It was a comfort to know that there was someone out there that would have been able to help you through this. But you didn’t know who they were, or where they were. And it didn’t matter anyway. </p><p>What good would you be if you couldn’t help yourself?</p><p>“Have you felt an increase in thoughts of this nature?” Your therapist was a nice woman who wore her hair messily piled on top of her head. Gray streaks throughout and proud of them, always in all black and always had a fresh iced coffee whenever you met with her. You’d been seeing her for years. </p><p>Insecurity about one’s soulmate often led a person to seek help, the strange self-loathing and anxiety that grew as a teenager was what gave you a final push in college when you turned to abusing adderall in order to tackle your busy schedule and just keep you from thinking all together. </p><p>“Just since the assault.” And that was true. You’d been so good for such a long time. </p><p>“Progress isn’t linear.” She always tells you. And you’ll try not to criticize yourself even further for falling behind. Or what you think is falling behind. </p><p>You try to hold those ideas close. Because your soulmate isn’t who is going to help you get past this. You are. </p><p>x</p><p>It didn’t take long. Not for the Winter Soldier. And definitely not for a man who was personally wronged by a sloppy thug who left tracks like mud on white linoleum. </p><p>It was his soulmate they were after. The tug on his heart strings as he remembered the way you face looked, eye socket swollen and black because of this asshole’s fist. The anger that bubbled and rolled, acidic and hot in his gut. </p><p>It took him less than 36 hours to find the guy. </p><p>“What does Rumlow know?” Fuck all if Brock thinks Bucky Barnes was going to call him Crossbones. The man’s eyes were rolling, head lolling, drool coming from the corner of his mouth, strapped to a medical table that Bucky could still feel against his back. He sighed in frustration. Maybe he hit the guy a little too hard. That’s fine. They had time. </p><p>This place gave him the creeps. The facility that he’d searched with Steve and Sam just a day or two ago. It was eerie seeing it empty. The way he remembered it, back in the 90s when he was here, right before Howard and Maria, it was booming with personnel. Men and women devoted to ‘the cause.’ Hydra’s better tomorrow. </p><p>The better tomorrow that he helped shape. </p><p>Natasha set the bomb off. He was cleaning up the rubble. </p><p>“What does Rumlow know?” The man’s eyes met his, fearful, a hard swallow. Tongue seeking out the tooth that Bucky already ripped out. The cyanide. Another hard swallow, his fate resigned. Bucky leaned forward, the metal chair rusted and screaming in protest. “What?” Bucky couldn’t help but bite, “You had no problem beating a woman on the street.” And now the coward wanted to be afraid. “Start talking.” The tools Bucky kept on him lay out on the medical cart. Pliers and a couple different knives. A pick he used to unlock doors. Mostly for show. </p><p>Mostly. </p><p>Fingernails were the worst. That’s what Bucky started with, but the guy was more of a coward than he thought. He got two fingers in before squealing, </p><p>“He just wanted a picture of the tattoo.” Fat blubbering tears. Snot across his nose. “He wanted to see her soulmark.” </p><p>“Well?” Bucky pressed on the raw flesh, hard. “Did he see it?” If Rumlow saw the tattoo, if he had a picture, and he knew where you lived, he had to move fast. The man squirmed, crying, “Did he?” Bucky yelled. </p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>x</p><p>You wondered how these kids got so talented. Truly. A ten-year-old who tells Gordon Ramsay that he’s making a Bearnaise sauce. Like what even is a Bearnaise sauce? </p><p>From the comfort of your home, a blissful day off, you’d gotten a lot done. Probably one of the most productive days you had in a long time and it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that cleaning your entire apartment ceiling to floor and listening to an audio book completely cleared your mind. It gave the sinking feeling in your gut that you couldn’t shake a twelve hour break as well. </p><p>This ramen that took three minutes to make from a plastic bag looked paltry in comparison to ten-year-old Grace’s filet mignon that she was presenting to the judges, artfully drizzled with her Bearnaise sauce, but it was the best you could do planning to go grocery shopping tomorrow. </p><p>The broth was hot, spilling on your pants as a series of hard knocks met the wood of your front door. Anxiety spiking. Stepping from the couch, you backed away from the door. Setting the bowl on your counter,you backed yourself down the hallway, towards your bedroom where you knew your phone was charging on your night stand. </p><p>The person stopped knocking, voice coming muffled through the door. “Y/N, this is James Barnes.” The Avenger? Your steps halting, you stood in the doorway of your room, straight ahead was your front door. “I have reason to believe you’re in danger.” There was an internal struggle. Was this guy telling the truth? Do you go look out the peephole? You weren’t even sure you knew what this guy looked like to know if it was him or not. What if this was a trick? What if the man who assaulted you was on the other side of that door?</p><p>Heart racing you took a step forward, heading to the door to look through the peephole when you were yanked back hard enough to hurt your neck. A scream leaping from your throat as a hand covered your mouth, a strong arm pinning your arms down and keeping you from lashing out. </p><p>“I’ve got you,” A whisper, “Relax, I’m not going to hurt you.” You could feel your body trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.  “That’s not James Barnes.” There was a slight breeze from where your bedroom window was open. “I’m gonna let you go, but you’ve got to listen and trust me to get you out of here. Can you do that?” His body was hot against your back, the hand over your mouth cold and metallic. James Barnes had a metal arm, didn’t he? You could feel yourself nod, the man releasing you slowly and letting you take a step away before turning back to face him. </p><p>His hair was short, ruffled, with a thick scruff on his face. And the bluest eyes you’d ever seen. </p><p>“Let’s go.” The banging on the door resumed, but this time, the hinges were bending, metal warping with each hit. The man you were supposed to trust jumped onto the windowsill and held out his hand to you, “We don’t have a lot of time.” Your eyes flit between the front door, now splintering, and the open metal palm of the man who broke into your apartment. Adrenaline rising you made a split second decision, the door falling off its hinges you let the man pull you out of your apartment and down the fire escape. </p><p>It was close, almost too close. </p><p>Apartment window locks, the old ones anyway, were an easy lift and pop out of place. The banging on your front door gave him cause for alarm, but you’d already been making your way back to him. Steve had a lot of questions, but was enroute nonetheless. All he had to do was get you as far away from Rumlow as possible. </p><p>“They’re on their way to take care of the guys breaking down your door,” He explained, trying not to think about how soft your hand was in his. “Steve, Sam, and a couple other agents.” </p><p>Your eyes were shifty, he knew you didn’t trust him, at least not all the way. </p><p>“Are you okay?” The swelling was gone from your eye but it was still a violent shade of blue and for a second Bucky thinks he went easy on the thug before turning him over. </p><p>You’re three blocks away, the late night traffic and noise was a little disorienting. A car was in front of you backed into an alley, blacked out windows, the Avengers insignia in gray paint on the side. Maybe this guy was the real deal. </p><p>“I’m fine.” Truth was you were terrified, your feet were cold and you were surprised you didn’t step in glass with how fast he’d dragged you three blocks without shoes on. He gave you an odd look before opening the passenger door and gesturing for you to get inside. There was hesitation. His eyes locked with yours, seeming to debate something before taking a step closer to you. </p><p>You stepped back. </p><p>“I need you to come with me.” His voice was soothing, reassuring, but you still couldn’t quite be bought. </p><p>“Listen, I don’t know what kind of situation you got me out of back there, but this is all a little too strange for me,” There were police sirens, flashing lights sped down the street behind you, towards your apartment. You look back at the man in front of you, arms wrapped around yourself and toes now going numb. “I just don’t know exactly who I can trust right now.”</p><p>The metal digits moved to his sleeve, tugging the fabric upward, his pale skin a stark contrast against he black ink of bleeding hearts.</p><p>His bleeding hearts. </p><p>Your bleeding hearts. </p><p>“Trust me,” he says, voice desperate, “Please.” And in an instant, you did. </p><p>It made sense.</p><p>It made complete sense. </p><p>He was over eighteen when you were born, because he was born a century ago.</p><p> There was silence in the car as you left the city. Both unable to speak. Where did you go from here? You weren’t ready for this. You don’t know if you could do this. Your hands were shaking, your shoulder was aching and you suddenly felt wildly uncomfortable. </p><p>There’s an expectation with soulmates. Is it what he expected of you? Like was this you jumping into the deep end of dating and meeting families and getting married and spending every waking minute sappy and in love?</p><p>You weren’t ready.</p><p>You couldn’t do this. </p><p>You were safe. That’s all that matters. Bucky’s hand hurt from gripping the wheel so tight. His heart was racing now that you were so close. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do here. Does he start a conversation? Does he tell you about what just happened? No. He doesn’t want to scare you more than you probably already are. Rumlow is a conversation for later. When there can be a rational conversation outside adrenaline and fear. </p><p>But where do you go from here? Bucky didn’t know. Should he be asking you on a date? Are you going to ask him on a date? His anxiety spiked thinking about it. He just started doing well enough in therapy to go back on field missions, he didn’t know if he was ready to take on a committed relationship. The rolling feeling in his gut was back. </p><p>“Here,” The compound was sleek and minimalist, “If you want to rest until the rest of the team gets back, it might be a while after interrogation and processing.” A room for you to sleep in, the sun already sunk below the horizon well before you were pulled hastily from your apartment, the fatigue finally settling in. </p><p>“Uhm, thank you,” You didn’t know what to say, but it seems like he didn’t know either. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll uh…” He took a step back, “I’ll come get you in the morning.” Okay, okay. “If you want to take a shower, it’s right through there. And there’s spare clothes in the drawers.” Avengers sweats and hoodies. Nondescript undergarments. </p><p>The bottom of the shower, arm hanging out the side. You didn’t know how long you sat there, the water never went cold. But by the time you were done and you slipped under the covers the rest of the world just seemed to disappear. </p><p>X</p><p>“She’s your soulmate?” Steve looked at his friend incredulously. “Bucky why didn’t you say anything before?” He was stubborn, and he didn’t know what to do at the time. </p><p>“I don’t know.” Steve was annoyed. Hands on his hips, wide captain stance, authoritative voice annoyed. Disappointed dad annoyed. </p><p>“We would have had a strict detail on her,” He paced, “We could have brought her here for christ’s sake.” But Bucky didn’t want that. He wasn’t ready for this. </p><p>“She didn’t seem really interested in it Steve,” he shrugs, “And neither am I.” Sam scoffed, leaning back in his chair. </p><p>“You don’t want to be with her?” A strange look, “She’s literally made for you, and you for her, and you don’t want to be with her?” Sam’s eyebrows pulled tight in confusion. </p><p>“That’s not how soulmates are supposed to react to each other.” Steve adds. Both men didn’t understand. When they found their soulmates everything seemed to click into place. They weren’t as damaged, they weren’t as scarred. They wouldn’t understand. </p><p>“I’m not ready.” Bucky’s chest felt tight. “I’m just not ready. Not yet.” </p><p>x</p><p>You never had to see him. This Rumlow person. Crossbones. The next morning, when you woke up, James Barnes was waiting for you at the door. </p><p>“Are you hungry?” He seemed nervous, but so were you. He leads you out into the main common room. A plate of food covered in a metal lid, eggs, bacon, toast. A plate set aside for you from their early breakfast, he explained that most of them wake up for early morning training. Paperwork for the incident yesterday. It was quiet. Awkwardly so. But you didn’t know what to say, and it seemed like neither did he.</p><p>He busied himself making a cup of coffee and you watched him move. The ease in which he moved about this kitchen in where you imagined he made his meals, where he bonded with those other Avengers. Celebrities. It seemed surreal almost. Domestic. It’s why in all of those magazines they take candids of celebrities going to the grocery store, coming from the gym, faces clean of makeup. </p><p>They buy food. They work out. They have wrinkles and acne. Just like us. </p><p>They make coffee. They have awkward conversations. They don’t know what to do. Just like us. </p><p>It’s why your Mom loved watching reality tv shows. Not because she liked the people on them, but because sometimes it was interesting to see how the 1% lived. What they worried about. What their worldview was. How black and white they saw things. </p><p>You briefly wonder what an Avengers reality show would be like. </p><p>This was your soulmate. </p><p>The person created for you. And he drinks his coffee black. He had dark circles under his eyes. His arm was black, gold detailing, shaped just like his flesh arm. You were trying to remember the guy from the history books, what he looked like, but fifth grade was so long ago and you were more worried about growing out the bangs you’d cut at home in your bathroom. </p><p>It was hard to believe. </p><p>But it was real.</p><p>And right on his arm as he turned to join you at the kitchen bartop. You felt your back straighten, your fork continuing its path, pushing eggs from one side to the other. What do you do now? Say something? Anything? You couldn’t tell if he didn’t want this as much as you or if that’s just how he was. Silent, standoffish, the gears in his head turning and turning with thought. His eyes were unfocused, staring at the movement of your fork. Seemingly snapping out of it when you lay your fork to the side, his eyes met yours, a forced smile. </p><p>This isn’t what you expected, but the bubbling in your guy was going to spill from your lips before you could possibly help it,</p><p>“We don’t have to do this.” Whatever this was. </p><p>You’ve seen soulmates meet and you’re sure he’s seen soulmates meet in his lifetime. It wasn’t uncommon. Passing on the street, they see the soulmark, tears, hugging, maybe even a kiss if the pair was passionate enough. At your place of work it happened once with a new hire. It happens, constantly, around you. But this wasn’t like that at all. </p><p>He lets out a sigh of relief, “Thank god.” Your heart clenches, a feeling of rejection, smothered down, swallowed with a sip of orange juice. </p><p>“Wow.” His mouth opens and closes, </p><p>“I didn’t mean it like that,” shaking his head, he runs a hand through his hair, “I’m just not ready for this.” An understanding,</p><p>“Me either.” You both mirrored each other, relaxing against the chair back. You stare at one another for a minute, the silence comfortable for the first time. There was a simmer of rejection in the acid of your stomach, like maybe if he’d just been into it. If he wanted to be together now and do those things together now, you’d push aside your fears and leap into it. </p><p>But this was being an adult? Making the choice that you need to make and not the choice that you want. </p><p>There was that feeling there, you wanted to ask him questions. You wanted to know everything, this curiosity nagging at your brain. But this was good enough for now. </p><p>“Do you have anywhere to stay?” He asked. You let out a heavy sigh, realizing you wouldn’t be able to go back to your apartment for a bit. The door was bashed in “…and the fight was in your living room.” So the entire front of the apartment was mostly destroyed. “You won’t be able to go back there for a while.” You mourn the $300 you’d just spend finishing the living and dining area. “I mean, I’m not going to kick you out.” He continued, “But I’m not sure you really want to stay here.” </p><p>“I don’t.” He watches you rub your eyes and lean over, elbows on the table. “I can go stay with my parents for a little while.” </p><p>He didn’t think about how you would have living parents. His were long gone, buried in a cemetery behind the church they’d gone to their entire lives. It gave him pause,</p><p>“If that’s what you want to do.” </p><p>“It is.” </p><p>There was silence for a moment more, Bucky debating something before beginning, “I uh… just got cleared for field work, I still have some stuff I need to work through before I can be in this relationship.” Shifting awkwardly, “Fully.”</p><p>He watched your eyes widen a fraction, before releasing a sigh, “I understand that,” You lean towards him, “It’s weird cause my whole life I thought you were gonna be some guy old enough to be my father.” </p><p>“Technically I’m old enough to be your great-grandfather.” A laugh, the tension vaporized from the air. </p><p>“I wish I paid more attention in social studies,” You shake your head, “After central park,” A swallow, “I started to have nightmares and I felt so paranoid, and then that guy attacked me on the street, and now…” </p><p>“I’m sorry that happened to you,” His eyes soft, fists clenched under the bar top, “That’s my fault.” </p><p>“I know they were after you,” you could see it across his forehead, the way his shoulders were tense, the guilt, “but it’s not your fault they attacked me, and central park was just a coincidence.” </p><p>“I know.” He knows. “But I can’t guarantee it won’t happen again.” You paused, not knowing to say, but it makes sense. His line of work was dangerous, and it means that you might be put into danger every once in a while. </p><p>“We will just have to find new ways to cope then.” You could see the appeal, the way his eyes were looking down at the bartop, then snapped up to yours. It felt like the breath was knocked from your lungs. Is this what it feels like?</p><p>If he had asked you in that moment to stay, you would have, without hesitation.  </p><p>“If you need anything,” You couldn’t see his eyes properly in the dark of the car parked outside of your parent’s house, “Just call, and if I don’t answer send me a text.” </p><p>“Okay,” you look down at your hands in your lap, then over at the front door, the porch light on and you could see the TV through the window, your parents probably watching Brooklyn-99 reruns and trying to stay awake until you arrive. </p><p>“Hey,” His hand slipped into yours, pulling your eyes back to his, “You can stay at the compound if it would make you feel more safe.” </p><p>“I think I’ll be okay,” He’d taken you back to your apartment, behind the caution tape and helped you pack a suitcase before driving an hour outside of the city, well into New Jersey. Your belly fluttered as he pulled the suitcase from the trunk, carrying it to the front door where the two of you now stood under the porch light. </p><p>“Just check for me,” He said, “You’ve got my number and Steve’s.” You did. “You’ve got the number for the compound direct office.” You did. “Okay, okay.” A pause, “Let me just give you Nat and Sam’s numbers too, and Shuri’s.” You huff a sigh as the phone is taken from your hand, numbers quickly punched in. </p><p>“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He looked at you from beneath his lashes, thumbs quickly entering the last few digits. </p><p>“If anything suspicious happens, and I mean a neighbor takes their dog on a different route, someone passes the house one time too many…”</p><p>“I’m gonna be okay Bucky.” Your heart warmed with the concern, but you were also comforted by the fact that you’d agreed to take this slow. </p><p>“This is more for me than you, more for my peace of mind.” You could understand. He let out a deep breath, eyes meeting yours while he handed the phone back. There was a beat of silence, a creeping tension creeping up your spine, something pooled in your lower belly. Not awkward, not awkward at all. Something else. You took a step closer to him,</p><p>“Can I just do one thing before you go?” Bucky’s tongue peaked out, wetting his lower lip, rosy and pink. “I’m just-”</p><p>“Yeah,” A whisper. His fingers were soft on your arm, warm. And you pressed your lips to his. Hard to explain, how right it felt. Like you had a puzzle you’d been working on all your life and you were close to finishing, putting the whole thing together and he came up and handed you a piece you didn’t know you were missing. But it wasn’t complete yet, not yet. </p><p>Lips parting as you kissed him again, that pink tongue brushing against your lower lip. A breath away, “I should go.” Another kiss, soft and languid. </p><p>“Yeah.” It was hard to catch your breath, setting back down on your heels, stepping back. The air suddenly chilled, your body missing his warmth. </p><p>“If you need anything…” You smiled as he took step off the porch, mouth grinning, stupid and sweet. </p><p>“I’ll call.”</p>
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